


Last Night

by threewalls



Series: Werewolves of Landis [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Biting, Community: ij porn_battle, Dominance, Full Moon, M/M, Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-25
Updated: 2008-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:32:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>Vossler's stink of shock-flight-arousal cuts through Basch's own berserk haze.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Night

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "Final Fantasy XII, Basch/Vossler, fur--strange magic".

Basch's mind should be on the fortress. Vossler's questions nip at his concentration, question after question, as though they can discuss away Vossler's dissatisfaction with the men, their kit, the terrain, the war.

It is night, but the moonlight reflects off the sand, droplets of sand-salt-sweat from the day's march licking Vossler's neck, the blunt corner of the buckle that keeps his skin concealed. Basch strives to remain up-wind, eyes on the horizon. They are both captains, equal rank. It is not right what Basch wants.

It is not right that Basch has taken reconnaissance himself, though his eyes are sharpest. It is not right that Vossler followed him to the bluff, away from their men's canyon-hidden camp. It feels right, just the two of them, the night, the quiet, but Basch forgets that that is not the same.

Basch is not watching. Vossler is already standing so close. He grasps Basch's arm, and it's pure instinct that takes them down: Vossler struggling for reason, Basch for purchase, possession. Vossler's stink of shock-flight-arousal cuts through Basch's own berserk haze.

"Would you deny me?"

If Vossler fought him truly, perhaps he would find self-control. If Vossler would fight him-- Basch's nails have lengthened, hardened; his hair grows thick between his armour and his skin; he thrusts his claws into the sand-- perhaps he would not have even this much. He's always avoided Vossler at these times, but the war has narrowed all their choices.

Light armour leaves them vulnerable to each other, the hot press of thigh against thigh where their shorts have ridden up. Vossler's knee could end this, but Vossler only rolls between the fixed poles of Basch's arms to present his back.

Basch allows Vossler the space to kneel upwards-- bent elbows braced, head bowed-- before falling back, pressing close against Vossler from his collar to his arse. Basch's pleasure is disjointed, the shapes and edges of their armours camouflaging Vossler's familiar form. Basch's teeth seek flesh, but only find and worry metal, leather. They almost taste like Vossler. He noses through Vossler's dark hair, glutting himself on the scent. And then, Basch finds skin, Vossler's earlobe-- too small-- the plane of his jaw-- coarser fur rough against his tongue-- and the corded muscles of Vossler's neck, broad, salty and exactly right. His teeth have sharpened; Basch swallows blood.

Vossler pants: "Fuck. Basch. Basch." He's braced on a single shoulder, hand working underneath. He jerks against Basch's mouth, and his scent tinges sour-bitter-musk.

Basch thinks: "Mine. Mine. Mine," but the sounds he makes are not language. The cries of wolves sound down below.

Basch doesn't know what he has become, what the Archadian researchers made of him and his brother, all those years ago. He's stronger than any man he knows, and he heals too fast. He licks at Vossler's pliant neck, unconcerned by the tufts of light hair falling, settling around them. There's blood dried by their body heat, but no wound Basch can discover. He bites in, again. _Mine._ Vossler groans.

Tomorrow, they will reach Nalbina, they will save the king, and the moon will wax full.


End file.
